Loss
by Believer1
Summary: The Elves of Lorien, including its March Warden, have come to aid Rohan. Memory, however, can make battle even more painful. Character death, follows PJ's TTT, obviously


Loss

Disclaimer: Haldir does not, nor ever will, belong to me. (Unfortunately. Ok, repressing fangirl tendencies.) He, along with Rohan, Aragorn, and Legolas, are the sole property of the Tolkien Estate. And for some ungodly reason he has joined Aragorn and Legolas at Helm's Deep courtesy of Peter Jackson, so I guess I might as well add New Line Cinema owning him too. Don't ask. I don't know why, but his being there inspired this little piece of fiction. 

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_And you will weep when you face the end alone_

_You are lost! You can never go home…_

'Gollum's Song'

Haldir of Lórien moved swiftly through the ever-increasing number of orcs and _uruk-hai_, his face a mask which did not deny hatred to pass through. Once kinsman, now long mutilated, tortured, and twisted to serve a far more evil master, the orcs garnered in him only the greatest of disgust, and it surprised him. He had not felt such hatred since he was a young elfling, barely old enough to pass the trials necessary to be decreed an Elf of the March, one of the protectors of the Lórien borders.

_ so young haldir is made an elf of the march _

Perhaps it had something to do with the smell of these creatures. All that was unholy was behind their breeding, and thus their scent was not clean and pure like the Elves, nor warm and vitally alive like the Edain, nor even earthy-sweet like the animals and plants of the forest. They were nothing but foul, and the stench of their blood as it spilled blackly into the night ahead of him was nauseating. 

Maybe, if he delved deeper, he would find that the reason for his hatred of these creatures was an unconscious one, bred into him by long years of fighting and killing their kind, just as theirs had slain his for many _yén_. 

The filigreed blades that made up his secondary weaponry were in his hands; now came the combat too close and too quickly for bow usage; even if he had been able to spare their usage and pick up his bow, there would be no white-tipped arrows to make the bow sing its deadly song. 

_my gift to you legolas is a bow of the galadhrim worthy of the skill of our woodland kin_

The filigree was now stained black, and his once pristine armor was coated with the grime of battle. But he forced himself to ignore it, just as he was ignoring the shrieks of his enemies and the screams of his allies. All that he could afford to concentrate on was the moment: on where he was, on what he was doing. 

It did not occur to him then that his main focus was not survival, but to kill as many of these creatures as he could.

Had the March Warden delved even deeper still into the passages of mind and memory, he might have discovered a reason for this that was not as biological as learned skills or the passage of time; nor was it as instinctual as predator and prey. It was more primal than that, a desire for revenge that pulsated through his veins, heating his cold blood and making the attack a force upon the _uruks_ that they had clearly not expected.

Surrounded by enemies and rapidly falling friends, he could not afford to remember his parents, the day his life had splintered into a thousand pieces. 

He could not afford to remember his father, the comfort and the protection promised in his father's embrace. 

_someday we will fight together how proud will i be to have you with me_

Faster now came the blades, so impossibly fast. Eyes, darting in the darkness, calculated the positions of his men and the dangers they were in. If there was more time in Arda for this, if he was ten thousand instead of one, he could have defended them all. 

He could not afford to remember his mother's wail of agony when his father's body had been brought before them, battered and bruised beyond recognition, the loss of blood forcing his father's face ashen gray, a mockery of the uniform he had been so proud to wear.

He was a glimmering point of light on a battlefield already cold with so much death, and even as he fought, he was aware that his own light was gradually being overtaken with darkness.

_you cannot falter now the path to darkness lies ahead the men of rohan need your aid_

Galadriel's voice filtered away the memory of his brothers burrowing beside him in bed, nightly terrors robbing them of what precious sleep remained unto them. He did not _want_ to remember Orophin's hot denials of what had happned or Rúmil's hot tears against his skin as the younger Elf wept for what he did not understand.

_where is _ada_ haldir why hasn't he come home i want to see him make him come back_

There were too many for him to go on fighting alone. Deep in his heart he knew it, and yet he could not stop. Desperation, determination, loyalty to the ideal that had brought him here - 

_long ago we fought and died together_

- whatever one wanted to call it, it kept him together, kept him sane, as battle raged on below him, beside him, around him. Just upwards of him he heard the faint cry of an Elvish voice in distress, knew more than just the sound, but the pitch and tone, for it was one of the many warriors who had sung a lament for Mithrandir, Galadhon by name, a friend of _yén beyond the lifespan of mortal men. _

He looked helplessly for Galadhon, knowing that in the sea of black and armor, the shape of his friend would be nearly impossible to find. But to his horror he found Galadhon mere footsteps away, brown eyes wide with shocked dismay, fingers still clenched to a wound in his side.

The victor of the contest, an orc whose conquering screech grated on Haldir's ears, stood just beyond the fallen warrior. So close, a footstep away, and the enemy's victory would be shattered by another death. 

His mother's eyes floated down from the rafters of memory; the shock made him pause. Had he truly forgotten how her eyes had deadened in the aftermath of his father's death, how they had pleaded with him so eloquently to take care of his brothers when she too was gone?

_i cannot do what you ask of me _naneth _please do not make me do this alone _

Haldir never cried out in battle lest it was to warn his men to retreat; 'twas not the Elven way to give forth with unnecessary sound, at least not the way his father had taught him. Earlier, he had seen Legolas fighting, and it seemed Thranduil's son followed his own heart on these matters. Yet now the sound of rage filled his ears as he uttered it, and with a step and thrust the offending enemy's head was severed from its shoulders.

_But what good would it do?_ _Would it bring Galadhon back?_ hissed a voice in his ear, a voice that was no more real than this battle was a game. He tried to dismiss it, but the starless pools of his friend's eyes deflected the stratagem. 

_you must haldir i need you to be strong for me _nîn ion__

The step of the March Warden faltered a moment, and then regained its speed, the swing of his blade its confidence. To be anything but would be to deny the last wish that echoed in the dimmest recesses of a child's broken heart. 

A sudden shout of his name broke through the crimson haze that had clouded his vision and he turned instinctively toward it, finding the Ranger through the crowd equally on instinct. The two leaders' eyes met, and for an instant it was as if they shared one thought. The men of Rohan and the Elves of Lórien and Imladris could not press too much further. 

"Nan barad, Haldir! Nan barad!" 

__mae govannen_ haldir you are most welcome we are proud to fight alongside men once more_

The Dúnadan was right. The retreat must come, and must come swiftly. Too few remained to continue this fight for too long; and those who did remain could barely stand, exhaustion amply evident in their slowing movements. He saw this from where he stood and nodded down to Aragorn, beginning to order his men to flee to the safety of the keep. Those who could not walk on their own were aided by those who could, and Haldir checked them as they passed, the names echoing in his head.

_ too few are they who will return from this i would have given my life to spare them_

The desire for revenge, the knowledge of the weakness of both forces and position, juxtaposed, ready to do battle in his mind for the control of the March Warden. But he knew his duty first lay to his men. 

"Nan barad," was the order that was repeated, and it was what filled his ears as he turned to aid still others past him and safely to the staircase just beyond him. 

He would not leave until all that could be moved into the keep were moved.

_he would not leave them there to die does that make _ada_ a hero haldir_

Filigreed blades, flashing in darkness, flailing to uphold the light -  

_yes _ada_ was a hero just like the ones naneth__ used to tell you about don't you remember_

- the spin of a dance so delicate and yet so timelessly full of anger, the dancers suspended between life and death. Each one a composite of yin and yang, for what were the orcs but darkly twisted elves and what were the elves but light-embracing orcs? A seed of both dark and light had once existed in each race, now worn away in one. Would the other wear away in Elves, too? Could that bring them back into balance?

Orophin's knowing eyes, feverish with anger as Rúmil was given the consoling lies one tells a child when numbness and youth void all else from being said, filled his mind suddenly. Those bitter eyes flashed defiantly before him then and he did not pause as the sarcasm of his brother's words filtered through his memory. 

_if it makes him a hero to die then can he just be normal and alive like the rest of us_

There was no moonlight to guide his eyes as he fought his way free of a knot of_ uruks_, allowing four Elves to pass him, dragging a wounded comrade. His gaze swept beyond them, and there were still more fighting their way towards him. So he remained where he was, even as the cry came unto him again, more desperate-sounding this time. "Nan barad, Haldir!" 

The retreat was finalizing, then. Most of Aragorn's men were pulling desperately away from the battle. But what about those who were still embroiled in their life-and-death struggle? Should they be abandoned?

_Starless skies above, hear thou my prayer! Look'st thou on me with kindness, o holy_ Elentári_, thee who art the Star-kindler, in my hour of need; guide my hand so I might give aid to all those within my reach…do not let me fail now, I beseech thee, Elbereth…_

Retreat was promised below him, and safety. The stairs were close; but memory and the sickly sweet stench of death was at hand, and ready to strike down upon those nearby. He found his voice and uttered the cry.

_remember _nîn ion_ think not of yourself but of your men else no better are you than the _yrch

Plunging back into the warriors, he pushed as many as he could towards the stairs. Towards safety. Towards the dawning of the fifth day and the coming of Gandalf. Towards anything but what was about to befall him.

He grasped the hands of an injured warrior, shouldering another's burden until the staircase was reached and the wounded safely brought away. 

_you always had to play the hero haldir your luck cannot hold forever_

Turning to receive another he was embraced only by the swift fall of cold steel piercing flesh. There was little enough time for him to know that he was dying before the second stroke fell. 

"Haldir!"

All around him lay the fruits of war; the bodies of the dead with their eyes like empty pools, absorbing darkness and barring the light.

_why can't i draw breath i must be dying this is not happening i am of elf-kind i cannot die_

Yet how poignantly sad, to realize only now that the danger which had surrounded him, the danger which had enveloped his life in grief, the danger which had robbed him of a father, was now the very same danger which threatened him.

Was this dying, then? The slow loss of feeling in one's nerves, a numbing of the soul, a spreading shock seeping from a well of rage that something so undignified should happen to one not meant for death?

__ada_ nîn_ tell me is this what i should be feeling__

He felt the world tilt beneath him, and the freezing stones of the wall were rushing toward him when there came hands to catch him, the embrace of someone who had done this before, someone whose shoulders shook involuntarily with grief.

_at last i understand death _ada nîn _at last i know what it was for you to sacrifice it all_

Aragorn tried in those moments to keep him alive, Haldir could dimly feel the touch still through his body, though numbness had pervaded most of it. But at last the Dúnadan had to give up, and allow Haldir's body to join his companions in their sightless observation of the night sky.

_i can no longer see him from afar_

Isildur's Heir did not have time to pause further; retreat was all that was on his mind now. The dawning of a new day would not come fast enough for him and all living beings that fought in that corner of Rohan known as Helm's Deep. 

But for the dead, their still bodies would keep the night long company, and whatever halls they went to after their departures, be it Mandos, heaven, or some unnamed Valhalla, were filled that night. Some of these souls had been born seeking death; others had been born for immortal lives and decreed themselves worthy of sacrifice.

Haldir of Lórien was one of the latter. 


End file.
